Read Only in Naples for Free Online Page B

the Italian language, so the English word is used. It is pronounced with a rolled
r
and a long, languorous, luxurious
eye.
) There was even a man who stood behind a little table selling condoms, year-old newspapers, Kleenex, and Scotch tape. (It took me a while, but I eventually figured out the uses for all of these accoutrements.) I never figured out, however, why all these
ragazzi
chose a place with a gorgeous view. I guess a romantic context helped to set the mood, even if the women ended up staring at newsprint.
    As I took in this 1996 Neapolitan equivalent of a 1950s American drive-in, Salvatore continued to kiss me. The pressure of his full lips and the smell of his cologne kept me in the moment, but the
ragù
breath took me back to his mother’s kitchen. The cars were rocking around us, and his hands moved over me quickly, trying here and trying there. It was too much too fast. I moved his hands away. I even said no, semiforcefully.
    Salvatore didn’t push it, he just finished his kissing and said,
“Va bene!”
as if we had just finished a game of UNO and it was time to go home. He started up the car and drove me back to the Denza. When I stumbled out, vaguely nauseous and with unsteady legs, he called,
“Ciao, bella Pagnottella!”
out the window and sped off.
    He didn’t say “Listen to you tomorrow,” and I was glad. I didn’t know what to make of him now. How could I reconcile the sweet, dependent mama’s boy with the silent groping man in the car? I needed to talk to some Italian women who weren’t related to Salvatore. I needed to find out if this was normal behavior.
    The next evening in the dining hall I waited anxiously for my Calabrese fairy godmothers. They would be shocked at how forward Salvatore was! If my Italian managed to sufficiently convey what had happened, they would surely commiserate with me. In the end, however, it was I who was in for a surprise.
    I told them the story as best I could, leaving suspenseful pauses and playing up my role as unsuspecting victim. They ate their veal cutlets
con calma,
and with impeccable manners, nodding at the right times. When I finished, there was a long silence. Then Maria Rosa said, “And?”
    “Yeah,” Francesca added. “What did he do that was so awful?”
    “He didn’t even ask, or hesitate, or wonder if I wanted to be kissed! Or touched! He just kept going!” I answered. “His hands were everywhere! Do you think he might have been drunk?” I honestly believed that that was the only possible justification for his aggressive behavior.
    “Of course not. He’s a guy! What did you expect him to do?”
    Now
I
was shocked. They interpreted it as completely normal male behavior! “So that’s just what guys do here? They’re that forward physically?”
    “
No! Anzi!
” said Francesca, and gave me the gift of another Italian word that I will never forget as long as I live.
Anzi
means to the contrary, and is said with raised eyebrows and a decisive, descending, very long
a.
“Guys do much more! Let me get this straight: You’ve seen each other six or seven times, he’s never even touched you before, and he didn’t try to have sex?”
    “That’s accurate.”
    “Are you
sure
he’s not gay?”
    And so, in a sense, my relationship with Salvatore was saved by these two southern Italian women. They explained to me that here, a guy will keep going until he’s stopped by the girl. Always, with no exceptions. And usually, the guy will be much pushier about it than Salvatore was. Use a slap when you need to, Maria Rosa told me. Offended? Why would a guy be offended by a slap? Never forget that men are needy and pathetic when it comes to sex. You have the power. Use it.

“ L et’s see if we can catch ourselves a mass,” Raffaella told me one Sunday in October, using the Neapolitan verb
acchiappare.
I was confused since that’s the same verb she would use for catching a fish or grabbing a crumb from someone’s crotch. I knew she was a